


Of Wyverns and Warbling

by ghostinthelibrary



Series: Where There's a Witcher [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, Feelings Realization, First Meetings, M/M, Monsters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:48:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22772020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostinthelibrary/pseuds/ghostinthelibrary
Summary: Geralt is just trying to have a drink before a wyvern hunt, but when the annoying musician at the bar wanders right into the wyvern’s path, he has to intervene. The musician proves to be more trouble than he’s worth.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Where There's a Witcher [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1604140
Comments: 105
Kudos: 1010





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first chapter of _Where There’s a Witcher_ , “Of Wyverns and Witchers,” retold from Geralt’s POV. If you haven’t read _Where There’s a Witcher_ and aren’t in the mood to read a 60K word modern AU right now, this can be read as a standalone.
> 
> ETA 6/30/20: Thank you to Terresdebrume for the beautiful cover image for this fic! Cover images for the whole series can be found at https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/terresdebrume/622249613697662977

In nearly five hundred years, bars haven’t changed all that much. They tend to smell better, what with the working plumbing, and people get stabbed less, but the mechanics are the same. The ale is always overpriced, the bartenders are either surly or try too hard to be friendly, and the room is always crowded with preening men trying to impress the first pretty girl they see. And there always seems to be one jackass with a musical instrument crooning about heartbreak.

All Geralt of Rivia wanted was a drink before heading back out into the night to hunt the wyvern who has attacked three people in the last two days, killing one. It’s a Monday night and it’s a seedy dive bar on the outskirts of Posada. He expected a quiet night. Instead, there’s… _warbling._

The musician is young, probably in his mid-twenties, with wavy brown hair and a baby face. He’s not a bad singer; his voice is warm and melodious. But the songs are tripe: covers of the popular ballads Geralt tries to avoid on the radio and the occasional poorly rhymed love song. The boy seems to have love on the brain, if the way he flirts with the strapping bartender in between sets is any indication.

“He’s good, isn’t he?” the waitress says to Geralt.

“Hm.” Judging by the way she eyes the musician, her interest has more to do with his pretty face and flirty smiles than his singing.

“Don’t know why Benny had him in on a Monday night.” The girl shakes her head. “The band we had last weekend was shit. You want another beer?”

“Please,” Geralt says. If he hears another plaintive warble about hearts being ripped out of chests (not literally; that would be a song Geralt would enjoy listening to), he may drown himself in his drink.

Just when he thinks he can’t take it anymore, the musician gives a final croon and lowers his guitar. “And that’s it for the night. Thanks, everyone. Again, I’m Jaskier. You’ve been a great crowd!”

The handful of people in the bar mostly ignore him. The waitress and the bartender clap. Geralt sits in the corner and nurses his beer, trying to tune out the people around him. He is normally good at tuning other people out, but the musician is so loud. Somehow, he makes even more of a racket when he’s not singing. He flirts with the bartender and the waitress. He jokes around with the two old drunks sitting at the bar. He even eats his burger noisily.

And then, finally, Jaskier gets up to leave. Idly, Geralt’s gaze follows him to the door. The human man wobbles a bit as he walks and Geralt hopes he has a ride home. Through the window, Geralt sees the musician pause next to a crappy little blue car. Jaskier seems to consider his options for a minute, and then begins to walk.

Fuck. The wyvern has done most of its hunting along the road Jaskier is obliviously walking down right now. The boy is loud and noticeable, with no weapons but the guitar strapped to his back. He’s a ready made victim.

Geralt drains the rest of his beer and slaps some money down on the table before starting for the door. He can already tell it’s going to be a long night.

***

Geralt doesn’t have to wait long to hear a scream. He’s been following Jaskier for almost a mile, hanging far enough back that the musician is out of his line of sight, but he can still hear him. He is fairly certain he would be able to hear Jaskier if he were still at the bar; the boy hasn’t stopped humming or singing since they left. The road wouldn’t be a safe road to walk along at night, even without a wyvern lurking in the woods. It’s a narrow, poorly-lit road lined by woods on both sides. Jaskier is as likely to get hit by a car or robbed as he is to get attacked by a wyvern. It seems to Geralt that as the centuries have progressed, people have lost all instincts for survival.

Geralt’s musings on the follies of humanity are interrupted by the musician’s scream. The witcher breaks into a sprint. As the sound of splintering wood and a wyvern’s frustrated growl rends the night air, he rounds the bend to find Jaskier pinned to the ground by a wyvern pup. From what Geralt can see of Jaskier, the human seems unharmed, but from the way he’s whimpering, one would think the wyvern ripped his arms off.

The wyvern shrieks in Jaskier’s face and he turns his face away, features screwed up in terror. Geralt curses under his breath. He was hoping he could relocate the wyvern pup instead of killing it, but this one has clearly developed a taste for human flesh. Geralt can’t let it live. As the wyvern’s jaws open, prepared to engulf the musician’s head, Geralt lunges forward. With a single stroke of his sword, he decapitates the pup.

Jaskier sputters as wyvern blood splashes in his face. He looks up at Geralt wildly. His eyes are an extraordinary shade of blue. Geralt shakes the thought away as soon as it occurs to him. Shock and fear flit over the boy’s expression and Geralt knows he makes a terrifying picture with his black eyes and chalk white skin. This is normally the part where humans faint, piss themselves, beg for their lives, or any combination of the three. But the musician just gapes at him.

It annoys the shit out of Geralt.

“Are you fucking stupid?” Geralt demands. The boy just sputters in response, so he repeats in a slower voice, “Are. You. Fucking. Stupid? A wyvern killed a man not a half mile from here last night, yet you walk alone at night, unarmed and singing to yourself like some kind of court jester?”

“I didn’t—”

“And now her pup is dead, the mother will be even more dangerous.”

Jaskier’s eyes go comically wide. “Pup?”

“Of course.” Geralt gestures to the wyvern, which is hardly bigger than a large dog. “This one was too young to be far from its mother. We need to move. Get up.”

“There’s a baby wyvern crushing my ribcage, if you hadn’t noticed.” Even out of breath and scared out of his skin, Jaskier manages to make acid drip from his tone. To his surprise, Geralt feels the impulse to smile. He ignores it and pushes the wyvern corpse off the younger man. A wyvern, most likely the mother, shrieks somewhere in the woods and Jaskier flinches violently.

This night isn’t going the way Geralt planned. “And that would be the mother. Come with me, unless you want to find out what a full-grown wyvern looks like.”

“No, thank you.” The human’s legs tremble as he climbs to his feet. He’s still staring at Geralt with wide eyes. He looks like he hasn’t decided whether to be scared of the witcher or not.

There’s no time for Jaskier to make his decision. Geralt needs to get the boy back to Roach, before the wyvern attacks. Geralt turns and strides away, listening to Jaskier’s labored breathing as he struggles to keep up. “That was an unusually large baby wyvern, right?”

Geralt snorts. “Average size for a pup. Maybe a bit scrawny.”

“But when you tell people about this, you’ll tell them it was the largest you’ve ever seen? Fifty feet long, eyes like flame, teeth as long as swords?”

Geralt is about to ask why the hell he would tell people about this when another shriek from the woods cuts him off. The wyvern is drawing closer. He can hear her crashing through the trees, driven into a frenzy by the smell of her pup’s blood. He just has time to shout at Jaskier to get back when the wyvern comes flying at them. Jaskier doesn’t move, just stares at the wyvern with his mouth hanging open. Geralt shoves the foolish human to the ground, out of the way of the creature’s teeth and claws.

The wyvern dives for Geralt. Easily, the witcher ducks and rolls to avoid it. The wyvern slashes and snaps at Geralt, but he parries her blows with his sword. The creature’s reflexes are slow. He’s sure she’s starving and possibly sick. Again, he feels a jab of remorse that he has no choice but to put the wyvern down. There aren’t many wyverns left. But her fate was sealed as soon as she killed and ate a man.

The wyvern is weakening and Geralt knows that this fight is as good as won when he hears a scrabbling noise behind him and realizes that the stupid, _stupid_ human is making a break for it. Drawn by the sight of fleeing prey, the wyvern’s lips twist into a snarl.

“Don’t run!” Geralt shouts, but it’s too late. Jaskier is running, tripping and stumbling as he goes.

The wyvern gives chase. She scoops Jaskier up in her claws and lifts him into the air. Jaskier screams and kicks as it carries him deeper into the woods. The wyvern falters in the air, thrown off balance by the human’s struggles. Geralt draws back his arm to throw his sword, then hesitates. With Jaskier thrashing about, there’s a good chance that he’ll hit the human. But the wyvern twists, her mouth poised to snap Jaskier in half, and Geralt realizes he has no choice.

He throws a sword. It sinks into the wyvern’s eye. The creature jerks and crumples to the ground. Jaskier shrieks as he drops the five feet or so to the earth. From his screaming, Geralt would think he was plummeting hundreds of feet to his death. He finds the musician shaken but mostly unharmed on the forest floor, curled up next to the wyvern’s corpse. Jaskier is trembling as Geralt drags him to his feet.

“I told you to stay behind me,” Geralt growls. The boy is bleeding from cuts on his shoulders and sides, but none of them look deep. Jaskier will live, despite the idiot’s best efforts.

“I was just trying to get further behind you.” Jaskier tries to smile, but his lips are spasming with residual terror.

“And nearly got yourself killed. Come on, Roach is nearby.”

To his relief, Jaskier is silent as they walk to the place where Geralt parked his car, near where the wyvern was spotted the night before. It would have been easier to park Roach outside of the bar, but Geralt makes a point to never park his car where he drinks. The car is too noticeable; any passing enemy of his would recognize her and know that Geralt was inside.

“This is Roach?” Jaskier sounds incredulous.

Geralt grunts and nods. He gets this reaction a lot; humans expect certain things from a vehicle belonging to a Witcher, and Roach is none of those things. A boxy, brown sedan, she is exactly what Geralt needs. Nondescript, reliable, and with enough trunk space to accommodate most monster corpses. And thanks to the finest mechanics money can buy and the occasional assistance of sorcery, she still runs as beautifully as she did on the day Geralt purchased her thirty-two years ago.

“You named your car _Roach_?”

The witcher isn’t going to dignify that with a response. “Where were you heading?”

Jaskier shies away from him and for the first time, Geralt realizes he was still holding onto the musician’s arm. He frowns at his own absent-mindedness; he makes a point to never touch humans unless it’s necessary for their safety. They tend to find it disconcerting.

“Oh,” Jaskier says. “No, no thank you. I can walk. It’s only a mile or so.”

“Wyverns tend to give birth to two pups at a time.” The wyvern’s second pup was found dead several days ago, seemingly hit by a car. Geralt is fairly certain its death is what spurred its mother’s sudden aggression towards humans. But Geralt isn’t going to tell Jaskier that; the musician has the look of someone who attracts trouble. Geralt is sure mortal peril will befall the boy if he leaves him alone on the side of the road.

Jaskier slides into the passenger seat without further protest, the first inkling of common sense Geralt has sensed from him tonight. “Maple Street, not far from here.” He’s silent for a beat, still studying Geralt with wide blue eyes. The witcher can still smell his fear, under the sulphurous scent of wyvern blood, but he doesn’t think Jaskier is frightened of him. It’s a miracle this human survived infancy.

“I’m Jaskier, by the way,” he adds.

“Hm.”

“This is the part where you introduce yourself.”

Geralt keeps his eyes on the road. He loathes this part. If the human isn’t scared of him yet, he will be momentarily. “Geralt.”

There’s a beat of silence. “Of Rivia?”

“I’ve never met another Geralt.”

“The Butcher of Blaviken?” Geralt is unsurprised when the fear scent in the car sharpens. Stregobor will never let the story of the Butcher of Blaviken die; even hundreds of years later, it’s what most people think about when they think about witchers. The story of a witcher, driven mad with bloodlust, cutting his way through mercenaries and innocent civilians alike, seems to have canceled out every monster Geralt has ever slain and every life he’s ever saved. The fact that eighty percent of the story is bullshit is besides the point.

“Just Geralt is fine.” Geralt tries to keep his voice neutral and nonthreatening. _“People don’t like it when you snarl at them, Geralt,”_ Yennefer would tell him if she were here. _”Try not growling at everyone who makes eye contact with you, and maybe people will finally forget Blaviken._

Like his imagination’s version of Yennefer has any room to talk. She’s never tried to put other people at ease a day in her life.

He expects many things from the young man sitting next to him. Tears and pleading are a definite possibility, though he’s holding out hope for terrified silence. Instead, Jaskier blurts out, “But you’re at least four hundred years old!”

The fear scent has diminished and when Geralt looks over, Jaskier is staring at him in wide-eyed fascination. Geralt doesn’t think he was that good at appearing neutral and nonthreatening.

“Give or take a century,” he says. He’s closer to five hundred years old, but he’s not about to tell Jaskier that.

“That explains the car.” The musician casts a disparaging look around.

Geralt bristles. “What’s wrong with Roach?”

His tone must be harsher than he intends, because Jaskier draws back slightly. “Nothing. It’s a fine car. My grandfather had one just like it.”

“Your grandfather had excellent taste, which he clearly didn’t pass on to his grandchild.” Geralt fights down a grin at Jaskier’s indignant squawk and adds, “I saw the piece of shit you drove to the bar. That hardly counts as a car.”

“Wait.” Jaskier leans forwards.“You were at the bar? You saw my set? Did you follow me?”

“You were walking home alone. You were singing. It was like you wanted to be wyvern food.”

“Did you use me as bait?”

“You made yourself bait,” Geralt says as they turn onto Maple Street. “Which one’s yours?”

Jaskier points. “The yellow building on the right.”

To call the shabby-looking building “yellow” is generous, but Geralt lets it slide. He parks in front of the building and says, “Get out.” He has two wyvern corpses to clean up and payment to collect from the city council, then he has to travel to Novigrad for another contract. He’s hoping to make it there by morning.

“Nice to meet you too.” Jaskier sucks in a breath. “Thank you for saving me. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t been there.”

Geralt can feel the musician’s gaze on him. Something about his scrutiny unnerves the witcher. Jaskier’s nervousness seems to be edging towards fascination. Geralt never trusts it when humans seem too interested in him. He’s seen awe turn to terror too many times.

“You know what would have happened,” he snaps. “Wyverns would be feasting on your entrails right now.”

“Thank you for that visual.”

Geralt turns to face the musician. Jaskier is still watching him with those wide blue eyes. “Don’t take any walks alone at night,” Geralt says. And then since that seems overly optimistic, he adds, “And if you do, carry a knife.”

Jaskier flashes him what’s probably supposed to be a charming smile. The fact that his face is caked in wyvern blood somewhat diminishes the effect. Geralt lets his gaze linger on the musician for a moment longer than is necessary as Jaskier climbs out of the car. Shaking his head, he drives away, eager to get out of Posada as soon as possible.

***

Geralt completes the Novigrad contract (a rogue magician) in a matter of days, just in time to get a call about a dead dragon discovered in the mountains, with the corpse bearing signs of having just laid an egg. He’s hired by The Society of Draconic Protection (a truly ridiculous group of humans, since Geralt has never met a dragon who wasn’t fully capable of taking care of itself) to track down the egg and bring it back safely. Geralt tracks down the egg, but brings it to an old dragon acquaintance of his instead. He doesn’t trust a bunch of tree-hugging humans to socialize a young dragon properly. As a result, nearly a month spent trekking through the mountains results in not a single penny.

Geralt is drowning his sorrows in a pub on his first night back from the mountains, trying not to think about his dwindling funds, when he notices a group of college-aged women at the next table staring at him. This isn’t entirely unusual; the witcher tends to draw attention. The girls have been huddled around a screen the entire time they’ve been seating, giggling and whispering among themselves. Finally, one seems to summon her courage and walks over to him.

“Excuse me,” she says in a lilting voice. From Skellige, he decides. “Are you Geralt of Rivia?”

Geralt grunts in assent.

She flashes a wavery smile. “My friends and I were just watching the video about you. It’s really amazing, how you fought that army of wyverns and saved all those people! It’s so lucky that you were there.”

Geralt of Rivia is not a man who is struck speechless often. When he is speechless, it’s by choice. But right now, he can only stare at the girl. “Video?”

“Yeah, the song! ‘Toss a Coin to Your Witcher.’ It’s so catchy! We can’t stop listening to it.”

Geralt was only in the mountains for a month, but he feels like he’s returned after centuries to find that nothing makes sense any more. “The song?”

Her freckled face twists in horror. “Oh my gods, you haven’t seen it? You need to see it! He’s incredible!”

She shoves her phone into his hand and Geralt looks down to see a familiar blue-eyed face smiling up at him. On the screen, Jaskier begins to warble, _”When a humble bard, graced a ride-along with Geralt of Rivia, along came this song…”_

Well, fuck.

***

Geralt has never once visited Posada willingly, but the next morning, he’s back in the dingy little city and sitting on the couch in Jaskier’s apartment. It was no trouble finding it; he could hear the musician’s heartbeat from downstairs. The door was unlocked, naturally, because one near-death experience apparently wasn’t enough for the idiot. Geralt has to wait until late morning for the musician to finally stumble out of his bedroom, is nothing but boxers and a t-shirt, and head for the kitchen. Jaskier doesn’t even notice Geralt as he puts on a pot of coffee and begins to eat from a Tupperware full of noodles.

Finally, Geralt tires of waiting for him. “So a friend of humanity, huh?”

Jaskier lets out a little yelp and drops the Tupperware container. He whirls around and when he sees Geralt sitting there, his eyes go huge. “Um, hi.”

Geralt almost feels bad for the human’s obvious fear. Almost. “I just spent a month on a mountain, searching for a dragon egg.”

“Wait, what?” Jaskier asks.

“I got back and went to a pub. The girls at the table next to me were watching a video on their…” Why can’t he think of the word? He knows the word. “...Cellular devices.”

Jaskier’s lips twitch. “You mean their cell phones?”

“Yes, that. They recognized me. People don’t recognize me. You need to take the video down. And the article, too.”

“Have you seen the video?” Jaskier asks, excited.

“Yes.”

“What do you think?”

Geralt thinks that Jaskier’s versions of event are so exaggerated and romanticized, the account qualifies as fiction, but he only grunts in response.

The musician seems to deflate at Geralt’s lack of enthusiasm. Geralt does not feel guilty about that. “Look, I can’t take it down. I mean, I could, but it’s too late. It’s gone viral. People have seen it all over the Continent. A lot of people didn’t realize there are still witchers around and they’re excited.”

“Do you think it will go viral if I run you through?” Geralt growls.

Jaskier flinches backwards. “Probably. Look, it’s all flattering, right? And people have already moved onto the next big thing. There’s a video of a baby unicorn and a goat who are best friends going around. Want to see?”

Unicorns haven’t existed for centuries. “No.”

Jaskier visibly swallows. “Look, I’m sorry. But this could be a good thing.”

Geralt moves towards him, but pauses when Jaskier shrinks back against the counter. He’s used to humans being scared of him; he stopped letting it bother him years ago. But there’s something about the way the musician’s face tenses when he’s frightened that throws Geralt off-kilter. He remembers how Jaskier was able to joke and laugh only minutes after nearly being mauled by a wyvern. He doesn't like the idea of being more frightening to Jaskier than the wyvern was. Slowly, Geralt places his hands palms-down on the countertop.

Jaskier begins speaking quickly, as if expecting to be interrupted with a blow. “Hear me out. Look, Blaviken was what, three hundred years ago? And people still remember you for that. Not for the battles you fought, the monsters you killed, the innocent people you’ve saved. What you need is an image upgrade.”

“An image upgrade,” Geralt says.

“Yes! What you need is to be a Witcher for modern times. No more skulking in the shadows. No more hiding in the corner at dive bars. No more leather pants when it’s ninety degrees out. Let people see you for the hero you are.”

Geralt snorts.“I don’t care how people see me.”

“Right, so you broke into my apartment and scared the shit out of me because you don’t care how people see you?”

It’s a good point, which annoys Geralt. “What do you suggest?”

Jaskier smiles at him nervously. “Let me follow you around and write about your heroics. Knights used to have bards who followed them around and sang about them, right? It will be the same concept.”

Geralt shakes his head. “I’m no knight. And do you know why bards went out of style? Because they were fucking annoying. They got stabbed a lot.”

“People will get to see the real you,” Jaskier says. “And they won’t be scared of you anymore, so they may hire you more. You might not like attention, but I bet you like money, right? Think of all the people who probably haven’t hired you over the years because they were too scared of the Butcher of Blaviken.”

Another good point. The musician is distressingly full of those. “Hm.”

“Let me come on one mission,” Jaskier says. “One. If I annoy you too much or get in your way, you can stab me or feed me to a drowner. But I think this will work for us. I’ll get some fame and fortune and finally be able to pay off my student loans. And people will stop pissing their pants when you show up in their living room. Not that I--”

Geralt has a feeling that Jaskier’s babbling could last well into the evening, so he cuts him off. “I’ll think about it.”

The musician looks as surprised as Geralt. “Oh, okay.”

Geralt is very tempted to bang his own head against his counter. He’ll think about it? Why would he tell Jaskier that he’s even contemplating this? “There would be rules about what you’re allowed to write and what you’re allowed to sing.”

“Of course.”

“If I decide to do this, I’ll get in touch.” Fuck, maybe Geralt is considering this. Why is he considering this?

“Just knock next time, okay?” Jaskier’s smile is that of someone who already knows that they’ve won. He turns back to his pot of coffee and starts to say something else, but Geralt needs to retreat before he keeps agreeing to things he shouldn’t. He doesn’t know what it is about Jaskier that makes him want to agree to ridiculous ideas.

Geralt hates himself as he closes the door to Jaskier’s apartment behind him, because as loathe as he is to admit it, he already knows what his answer is going to be.

***


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt decides to let Jaskier tag along on a job hunting a bruxa in Vengerberg.
> 
> Or: a couple of missing scenes set between chapters 1 and 2 of "Where There's a Witcher," and some retold/expanded scenes from chapter 2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this story was originally just supposed to be a one-shot. However, I got a couple of comments expressing interest in more scenes from “Where There’s a Witcher” rewritten from Geralt’s POV and I got inspired.
> 
> I’m open to adding more chapters to this if anyone has any specific requests for me!

Over the next week, Geralt changes his mind a dozen times about the musician’s proposition. He keeps finding excuses to stay in Posada, a shitty city full of shitty people, where there isn’t enough well-paying work for him. He cleans out a nest of drowners in the sewers, sends a troublesome satyr packing, and spends a night looking for the warg that someone spotted that turns out just to be a large, ugly dog. When he returns the dog to its owner, he doesn’t get so much as a thanks.

The whole time, Jaskier’s words keep replaying in the back of his mind. _“Blaviken was what, three hundred years ago? And people still remember you for that. Not for the battles you fought, the monsters you killed, the innocent people you’ve saved. What you need is an image upgrade.”_

The boy is a fool. It’s going to take more than a couple of catchy songs to change centuries’ worth of disdain of witchers.

Then again, Geralt thinks after yet another motel has refused to let him rent a room and he’s sleeping in Roach’s backseat for the third night in a row, a little bit of appreciation would be nice. And a human sidekick could soften his image.

Jaskier wouldn’t survive a single hunt, Geralt decides the next night, when the wraith that is all that remains of a murdered teenage girl is doing her best to bring a house down on his head. He may have made it through a wyvern attack with only a bit of whimpering, but that was more shock than bravery. He would fall apart on a mission like this, or get himself killed.

After the wraith hunt, he stands on the lawn of the destroyed house with the dead girl’s mother. The woman is probably no older than forty, but there are exhausted lines around her eyes and mouth. In the last month, she’s lost her daughter to a senseless murder and then her husband, brother, and two sons to the wraith’s inplacable rage. The girl’s murderer, a neighbor, took his own life, giving the wraith no one to take revenge on, so it turned on every man and boy it could find.

“I should have called you earlier,” the woman says in a small, broken voice. “My brother kept telling me we needed to get help. But I just… I didn’t…”

She doesn’t say anything else, but she doesn’t need to. Geralt can smell the fear on her, almost as strong as her sorrow. She didn’t hire a witcher, because she was too afraid. She had probably heard the stories of Blaviken, and the rumors that witchers ate human flesh and brutalized women and any other number of atrocities, and she was too frightened to ask for his help. And now, four innocent people, including two young boys, are dead.

_“What you need is an image upgrade.”_

Geralt wonders how many people have died because they hesitated to call a witcher before it was too late.

He wonders how many more he could save if they weren’t too scared to call them.

And at that moment, as the human woman standing next to him begins to cry and Geralt knows he can’t offer her any comfort without terrifying her, Geralt realizes without a doubt that he’s going to accept Jaskier’s offer.

***

Geralt is on his way to Jaskier’s apartment the next morning when he catches sight of a familiar figure swaggering into a coffee shop in downtown Posada. Jaskier walks with an easy confidence, pausing to hold the door and shoot a flirty wink to a pair of girls entering the shop. He’s dressed surprisingly sedately, in a black polo shirt and jeans. Geralt pulls Roach into the first parking space he sees and sits there for a while, feeling embarrassingly nervous, like a schoolboy on his first date. He’s a witcher. He exorcised a wraith the night before. He’s seen things that would make most people piss themselves. He shouldn’t be on edge at the thought of walking into a coffee shop and having a conversation.

It takes him nearly an hour to work up the nerve.

Geralt is surprised to find Jaskier standing behind the counter in a purple apron, making coffee. He’s laughing at something his coworker, a pretty girl with short pink hair, is saying and he looks young and carefree. Geralt almost turns and walks away. Jaskier has already seen violence once; he shouldn’t have to experience it again. But then Jaskier looks up and at the sight of Geralt, he beams. He doesn’t look surprised, just smug, like he knew all along that Geralt would make this choice.

The pink haired girl goes pale as Geralt approaches, her eyes flickering between his medallion and his face. He left his swords in the car; walking into dining establishments armed has become less socially acceptable in the last century. If he had his swords, she would probably be crying right now. “Um, what can I get you?” she squeaks.

“Coffee,” he says.

“Um, dark roast, medium roast, blond roast…?”

Geralt blinks at her. This is why he usually only gets coffee at gas stations.

“I got this, Lilly.” Jaskier breezes past the girl. “Let me guess, Geralt, iced soy latte with extra whip and caramel drizzle?”

Geralt glowers at him. He doesn’t know what half those words mean. “We need to talk.”

“I get a fifteen minute break. Here, have your boring dark roast coffee with no cream or sugar and I’ll be over in a couple of minutes.”

Geralt takes his coffee and finds a table in the corner with a good view of the front door and the counter. He’s nearly done his coffee by the time Jaskier comes sauntering over, carrying a coffee of his own and a muffin.

“Here.” Jaskier splits the muffin in half and hands one of the halves to Geralt. “I can never eat the entire thing; these are enormous. Best muffins in the city, though. I was starting to think I’d never hear from you.”

Geralt puts the muffin down on the table without taking a bite. “Busy week.”

“With what?” The musician leans forward, eyes bright with interest. He doesn’t smell even a little bit like fear.

“Some drowners, a satyr, a wraith. Nothing songworthy.”

“Something tells me that’s not true.” Jaskier’s lips curl into a flirtatious smile. Geralt ignores it.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” Geralt says.

“Oh?”

“You’re right. I could use an image upgrade.” The words hurt to say. He takes a bite of the muffin to give himself something to do. Jaskier is right; it’s good.

Jaskier’s smile widens so much, Geralt wonders if it hurts his facial muscles. “Excellent! You won’t regret this, Geralt. We can start small, with a few more blog posts and some songs. How would you feel about writing blog posts yourself? ‘A Day in the Life of a Witcher?’ We could make it a weekly feature. People would—”

Geralt holds up a hand to silence him. “There will be rules.”

Jaskier sniffs. “Creativity knows no limits.”

“Yours will, if you want to accompany me on hunts.”

“Fine.” Jaskier sighs. “It wouldn’t be the first time my creativity has been unfairly censored. One time, when I was writing for my high school newspaper—”

“First,” Geralt says firmly. “That song you wrote was mostly lies.”

“I don’t like the word ‘lies.’ ‘Creative embellishment’ seems more—”

“It was all lies. I didn’t like it. From now on, when you write about me or sing about me, you tell the truth. No embellishments. No inaccuracies. No exaggerations. You write anything else about me fighting packs of wyverns, we’re done. Wyverns don’t even move in packs. Misinformation like that gets people hurt.”

He expects the musician to argue further, but Jaskier just nods, looking chastened. “Okay.”

“Second, I get final say on what you put in your posts.”

“I’m sorry, but that goes against my values of journalistic integrity.”

Geralt arches an eyebrow. “Where was your journalistic integrity when you were singing about packs of wyverns?”

“Two wyverns count as a pack.” The musician’s cheeks turn pink.

Geralt snorts. “Third, no singing on the job.” It’s not a rule he planned on issuing, but he’s still annoyed about the last song and he takes no small amount of pleasure in Jaskier’s offended gasp.

“People pay me to sing for them,” Jaskier protests. “I’m a musician!”

“You were playing at a dive bar on a Monday night. I don’t think people pay much for you to sing for them.” Jaskier sputters and Geralt continues, “Fourth, no being brave. You’re a human. Humans are very good at dying in stupid ways because they’re in the wrong place at the wrong time. So you stay out my way when I’m fighting.”

“I can do that.”

“And lastly, you do what I say when you accompany me on jobs. If I tell you to run, you run. I tell you to hide, you hide. I tell you to get in the car and drive away, you fucking do it.”

Jaskier’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’d let me drive your car?”

“If I’ve had all my limbs ripped off by a chimera, maybe,” Geralt says. “I’m going to take you on one job. If you manage not to shit yourself, nearly get yourself killed, or get in my way, we can talk about you coming on more jobs. You break any of the rules, we’re done. You’ll have to find another way to get famous.”

“I guess I can live with those rules.” Jaskier shrugs. “Now, about compensation—”

“I’m not paying you. I barely earn enough to live.”

“Wait, you want me to follow you around and give you good publicity for _free_?” Jaskier demands.

“This is probably going to be a pain in my ass and a waste of my time. I’m not paying you for that.”

For a moment, he thinks Jaskier is going to change his mind, but the kid huffs. “Fine. But when you start getting more jobs because of my articles, we’re going to talk about this again.”

“ _If_ I start getting more jobs because of your articles.”

“No, _when_.” Jaskier leans back in his chair with a cocky grin. “I’m a good writer. I’m a good singer. I’m a good storyteller. I’m going to get you more clients and make people see you in a different light. I’m about to change your life, Geralt.”

Geralt snorts. “Yeah, good luck with that, kid.”

***

Two weeks later, a bruxa has Jaskier cornered behind a dive bar in Vengerberg, one hand wrapped around the terrified musician’s throat. Geralt is furious with himself. It was too risky, sending Jaskier into the bar to lure the bruxa out. He took too long to kill the pack of bruxae who attacked him in the parking lot. The first time Geralt has taken Jaskier on a hunt, and the kid is already in mortal peril.

“Drop the sword, or I kill him,” the bruxa tells Geralt.

“Geralt.” Jaskier’s voice is thin with fear and his eyes are huge and pleading. At least he’s not bleeding yet.

“I don’t think you will,” Geralt tells the bruxa. Calling her bluff is a risk--she could tear Jaskier’s throat out before Geralt could close the distance between them--but she’s different than the bruxae who attacked him in the parking lot. They were near-feral, with the dried blood of their victims caked on their lips and underneath their fingernails. This one could almost pass for human. And if she wanted Jaskier dead, he would already be bleeding out on the ground.

He gets the story out of her, slowly. A new nest of bruxae moved to Vengerberg, slaughtering most of the local nest, including their queen. This bruxa, Ava, is one of the few survivors. Once she realizes that Geralt isn’t going to cut her down where she stands, she releases Jaskier, who comes to hide behind Geralt, still shaking a little. Geralt wants to snap at him that he was never in any real danger, but Jaskier still smells of fear, and Geralt doesn’t want any of that fear directed at him.

Ava leads Geralt and Jaskier to the nest--a derelict abandoned farmhouse on the outskirts of Vengerberg. “Stay with Roach,” Geralt tells Jaskier when the musician starts to climb out of the car.

Jaskier, who nearly pissed himself in fright while cornered by a single bruxa less than an hour before, looks outraged. “But how am I supposed to write about this if I don’t see the battle?”

“Not my problem.”

“Geralt…”

“Rule number four, Jaskier. Stay in the car, doors locked, windows rolled up.” A bloodthirsty bruxa could easily rip the door off and get to Jaskier, but Geralt decides not to bring that up. “And if you see anything that isn’t me coming at you, you drive away.”

“Ugh, fine. But the song I write about this is not going to be flattering.” With a pout, Jaskier gets back in the car. After a long glare from Geralt, he locks the doors.

The fight with the bruxae is ugly. There are twelve of them, including the queen. Nests always reflect their queen, and this one is mad with bloodlust and fury. When he closes in on the queen, another bruxa leaps onto Geralt’s back, clawing furiously at him as he sinks his teeth into Geralt’s back. Geralt slams his back into the wall until the bruxa has to release him. The queen lunges at him and he decapitates her before he turns and runs the bruxa who just jumped on him through. After that, the remaining bruxae die easily, the fight leeched out of them by the death of their queen.

Ava and her sisters are grateful, and the lingering touches Ava gives him as she thanks him tells Geralt they would be open to enthusiastically expressing their gratitude, but Geralt is tired and sore and the longer he leaves Jaskier alone, the more likely the kid will find trouble. So he leaves the surviving bruxae to clean up the mess and heads back to the car to find Jaskier leaning against Roach’s hood.

“I thought I told you to wait in the car,” Geralt growls.

“Who wants to sit in the car on a beautiful night like this?” Jaskier spreads his arms, grinning. “I heard lots of screaming. I take it the bruxae are dead?”

“They are. You’re lucky. If any of them had escaped, you would have been dead before you realized how stupid you are.”

“I knew you wouldn’t let them escape. Can we stop to get something to eat on the way back to Posada? I’m famished.”

“No.”

“Oh, come on, Geralt. I’ll even let you have one of my chicken nuggets.”

“No.”

“ _Geralt._ ”

“Ava and her sisters might still be looking for a midnight snack.”

Jaskier gets back in the car.

***

“So, that went well, right?” Jaskier asks, much later, after they’re back in Jaskier’s shitty little apartment in Posada and Jaskier has cleaned Geralt’s wounds and sung his truly terrible song about the bruxae fight.

Geralt grunts as he pulls his boots on. The bite mark on his back still hurts, but the bath and the chamomile salve helped. By tomorrow, he’ll be good as new, if maybe a little sore.

“I mean, I didn’t shit myself,” Jaskier says.

Geralt snorts. “Barely.”

“Look, it’s the first time a bruxa has ever threatened to kill me. I’m sorry I haven’t mastered the stiff upper lip yet.” Jaskier huffs. “I didn’t get myself killed.”

“Again, barely.”

“You’re the one who decided to have me be bruxa bait.”

Geralt feels a twinge of regret, remembering the acidic stench of Jaskier’s fear.

“And I didn’t get in your way,” Jaskier finishes triumphantly. “I did everything you asked.”

“Except stay in the car.”

“I stayed by the car, though. It got stuffy in there. Your car’s air conditioning sucks.”

Geralt glowers, his reflexive reaction to anyone criticizing Roach.

Jaskier laughs. “Don’t look at me like that. You told me I did well, remember? Like ten minutes ago, when I was giving you a neck massage in the bath.”

“Hm.”

“And the song is even accurate!”

“The song is terrible.”

“Well, you try writing a masterpiece when your creativity is being shackled, Geralt.” Jaskier rolls his eyes. “I’ll send you the blog post tomorrow. Do you have an email address?”

“A what?”

“Oh, ye gods.” Somehow, Jaskier manages to roll his eyes harder, getting his whole body involved in the expression of exasperation. “You really do need me.”

Geralt cocks an eyebrow. “I’ve been doing just fine without you up until now.”

“‘Fine’ isn’t always enough.” Jaskier crosses his arms over his chest. “So, what’s the verdict? Have I passed muster?”

“When Ava had you by the throat, you were terrified.”

“Of course I was terrified. A bruxa was threatening to kill me and you didn’t seem all that concerned!”

“If we keep doing this, that won’t be the only frightening situation you’ll be put in.”

Jaskier sets his jaw stubbornly. “I know. But I trust you to keep me in one piece. So, have I passed your test? Can we keep doing this?”

Geralt can hear the musician’s heart rate pick up, the only sign of his nervousness. “Okay.”

Jaskier’s face breaks into one of those unrestrained smiles of his and if Geralt’s gut does a funny little swoop, he decides to ignore it. After all, he’s a witcher. He doesn’t get butterflies in his stomach just because a pretty boy smiles at him.

***


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends! I know it's been like 7 months since I last updated this fic, but I just recently got inspired to write a bit more of Where There's a Witcher from Geralt's perspective. This chapter includes scenes from between chapters 2 and 3 of WTAW, as well as some scenes from chapter 3 in Geralt’s POV. It’s more of a series of brief snapshots than a coherent narrative, but I wanted to give you all something during the wait for the next installment.

The first time someone recognizes Geralt is about a month after he started working with Jaskier. He’s stepping out of a deli when a young female voice says, “Excuse me, are you Geralt of Rivia?”

Geralt turns to see two young women, probably students at the local university, watching him with wide eyes. “Yes.”

The woman who spoke gasps delightedly. “I _told_ you it was him, Marta! How many white haired men are wandering around Posada?”

Plenty, Geralt thinks, but he’s still too confused by trying to figure out exactly _what_ these women want from him. They don’t have the desperation of someone with a monster problem nor do they seem to be about to try and chase him away with pitchforks.

“Can we?” The second girl, Marta, holds up her phone.

Geralt nods, still utterly puzzled. Next thing he knows, there’s a girl on either side of him and Marta is holding her phone in front of them. Geralt can see his own image sandwiched between the two smiling young women, looking lost and vaguely alarmed.

“Oh, thank you so much!” The girls smile down at the photo like it’s some kind of masterpiece.

“And tell Jaskier we love him!” Marta’s friend says, to giggles from both girls.

Before Geralt can think of anything to say to that, they’re hurrying away, still laughing.

Later, when Geralt tells Jaskier about it while they’re on their way to investigate a possible nest of drowners, the young man roars with laughter. “It’s called a selfie, Geralt!”

“I knew that,” Geralt says, though he did not know that.

“See, this means the blog is working. People are starting to recognize you.”

“Hm.”

“Oh, come on.” Jaskier pokes Geralt in the arm. “Why else am I tagging along on these hunts, if not to make you famous?”

Geralt turns to scowl at him. The blogger is curled up in his passenger seat with a tub of cheese puffs in his lap— he always seems to need a snack when they’re on the road, no matter how short of a trip it is. “Never said anything about wanting to be famous.”

“Okay, then _well-known_ at least.” As the car stops at a red light, Jaskier leans into Geralt’s space. “Come here.”

Geralt sees Jaskier raise his phone in front of them. “What are you doing?”

“Taking a selfie of us.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re friends, Geralt, and friends should have pictures together.”

“We’re not friends.”

“If you think hurting my feelings will make me give up, you’re sorely mistaken.”

Geralt gives up and looks at the phone. Jaskier’s smile is wide, his eyes are bright, and he looks so happy that Geralt can’t be as annoyed about the selfie as he would normally be.

“Was that so terrible?” Jaskier asks after he takes the picture.

Geralt turns his attention back to the road and says nothing.

***

“ _Geralt._ ”

Geralt will never admit it to anyone, least of all to the man himself, but he’s starting to enjoy the way Jaskier says his name. He always draws out the first syllable and emphasizes the _t._ “Hm?”

“I asked for an account of the day in the life of a witcher.” Jaskier holds up Geralt's journal. “What is this?”

“A day in my life, just like you wanted.”

“My readership doesn’t want to know about you filling up Roach’s tank or going to the bathroom, Geralt. They want romance, drama, excitement.”

Geralt cocks an eyebrow at him. “Did you think I fought monsters all day?”

“No, but I thought you did _something_ besides driving around the city all day. Geralt, don’t you have a hobby? Something you like to do?”

“No.”

“That’s just sad. You’re like a thousand years old, and you don’t have any interests besides stabbing things.”

“Not a thousand years old.”

Jaskier sighs. “You know, the offer stands. You can stay with me, so you’re not sleeping in your car. Maybe if you had a proper place to sleep, you'd have time to find a hobby.”

“I’d rather sleep in an endrega nest.”

“Now, that’s just hurtful.”

***

Geralt leaves Jaskier behind in the car on all but the most basic hunts, much to the young man’s annoyance.

“I didn’t even see the killing blow,” he whines when Geralt gets back into the car after a particularly nasty fight with a noonwraith.

“Would you have preferred to get closer to the creature that was preying on young men?”

“You would have kept me safe.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “Anyway, she was already dead. There was no killing blow.”

Making Jaskier stay behind has mostly kept the musician out of trouble since the bruxa hunt. Until it doesn’t.

“Geralt can help you,” he hears Jaskier say from the inside of the house, an edge of desperation in his voice. Geralt can smell his fear and hear the way his heart pounds with terror.

“Witchers don’t help people like me.”

Fuck. When Geralt went off to find the werewolf stalking a small town in southern Kaedwen, he thought Jaskier would be safe left behind with the son of the city councilman who hired him. And now Jaskier is barricaded inside the councilman’s house with the son, who it turns out is the werewolf.

“This one does, Micah. You’re cursed.”

“I killed people.”

“And you’re as much a victim as they are. The real culprit is the person who cursed you. Please, let Geralt help you.”

There’s no response.

“What’s your plan here?” Jaskier asks. “Kill me? Take me hostage? And then what?”

“I don’t want to kill you.”

“Well, good.” Jaskier lets out a relieved little laugh. Given how afraid he smells, Geralt is surprised that he manages to sound so calm. ““Look, if you let me go, I’ll talk to Geralt.” 

“No,” the werewolf snarls, more animal than human.

Geralt hears the slight hitch in Jaskier’s breath and his grip on the doorknob tightens. He could use Aard to blast his way through the barricade, the werewolf could rip Jaskier's throat out before Geralt makes it inside.

“You’ll just go run to the witcher and tell him to kill me,” Micah says.

“I wouldn’t do that.” Jaskier’s voice softens. “You have my word, Geralt and I will help you. We’ll do everything we can to save you. But first, you need to let me go.”

There’s a long silence.

“Please,” Jaskier adds, and now the fear is clear in his voice. It’s well past nightfall and it’s a full moon. The fact that Micah hasn’t already transformed into a beast is testament to how hard he must be fighting the curse. “I think we both know that if I stay in this house any longer, you’re going to kill me. And then there will be no one to talk to Geralt on your behalf.”

There’s a long silence.

“Go,” Micah finally growls.

Jaskier doesn’t hesitate. Geralt hears the sound of his footsteps running through the house and the furniture that’s blocking the door moving. Geralt steps back as the door flies open and Jaskier comes flying through the front door, tripping over his own feet in his haste.

“Geralt!” His voice cracks with relief and to Geralt’s surprise, he finds himself with an armful of musician.

Geralt goes very still. He’s not used to people seeking him out for comfort. He doesn’t remember the last time someone embraced him.

“Micah’s the werewolf,” Jaskier says in a shaking voice. “But he’s clearly been cursed, Geralt. Someone did this to him. I could tell he was fighting the transformation the entire time I was in there. He didn’t want to hurt me. You can’t kill him. I promised—”

“I’m not going to kill him.” Geralt finds it oddly distracting to have Jaskier in his arms, his hair tickling Geralt’s nose and his breathing coming out in short, sharp bursts against Geralt’s neck. Geralt can still smell his fear, but also the spicy scent of his aftershave. Jaskier’s heart rate is returning to normal and he’s relaxing into Geralt’s grip, like he’s reassured by having him here. 

From inside, Geralt can hear the werewolf's transformation taking hold. He steps back from Jaskier and says, “Go to the car. I’ll come get you when it’s safe.”

For once, Jaskier doesn't argue, just turns and runs.

Geralt is able to subdue Micah, find the vengeful ex-girlfriend who cast the curse, and get her to undo it all before dawn. By the time they start the journey back to Posada, it’s morning and Jaskier is bleary-eyed and yawning loudly every ten seconds.

“You know—” Jaskier’s words are punctuated with an overly dramatic yawn. “I would have been safer if you hadn’t made me stay behind this hunt.”

“You would have been safer back in Posada.”

“”Safety is all relative.”

Geralt glances over at Jaskier, remembering the stench of his terror. “You okay?”

“Oh, I’m perfect! I’m inspired, is what I am. The noble witcher spares the life of the bloodthirsty beast and brings the true villain to justice.”

“I’m not noble. I had a job to do and I did it.”

Jaskier looks at him in silence for a long moment, which disconcerts Geralt. As much as he complains about Jaskier’s chattering, it makes him uneasy when the other man is quiet for too long. “It breaks my heart that you actually believe that, you know,” he finally says.

Geralt has nothing else to say to that, so he just drives.

***

Geralt has been in Posada nearly two months when he decides that Jaskier is right and he really should have somewhere to stay besides Roach and the occasional motel. It’s not that Geralt minds sleeping in Roach; he’s done it enough over the years. But it’s October and the nights are starting to get colder. Cold isn’t an active danger to Geralt, not like it would be to a human, but it certainly isn’t pleasant.

The problem is that rent in Posada is fucking expensive, even though no one in their right mind wants to live in Posada.

When he gets a contract to deal with a godling who has invaded a townhouse in Lower Posada and scared the inhabitants away, he knows he’s not going to kill the creature. Godlings are harmless, if occasionally too mischievous for their own good, but that isn’t something they need to die for.

“But I don’t want to leave!” the godling, who calls herself Lily, tells him. It’s always disconcerting to talk to a creature who is probably millenia older than him, but looks about eight.

“Don’t have much of a choice.” Geralt crouches down in front of her. “If I don’t take you somewhere else, the landlord is going to call someone else. Someone who won’t care about asking nicely.”

The godling bares her sharp little teeth. “Let them try.”

Geralt gentles his voice. “Lily, there are places you can go where there will be others of your kind. You’ll be safer there.”

She perks up a bit at that. “Others?”

“I know of at least two in Velen.”

“Do they have a bathtub? Because I like the bathtub here.”

It’s been ages since Geralt has had a real bath. The pathetic tub in Jaskier’s apartment doesn’t count. “I’m sure they can figure something out.”

When he’s convinced Lily to relocate to Velen and she’s sitting in his passenger seat, happily fiddling with his radio, the landlord comes up to Geralt and demands, “You didn’t kill it?”

Geralt turns to the woman with a perfectly flat expression. Jaskier isn’t here to smooth things over— he has a gig tonight— and Geralt is surprised by how much he misses the musician’s presence. “Godlings are harmless creatures. No reason to kill her.”

“Harmless? She scared away three sets of tenants! The house has been empty for over a year.”

“I don't kill innocent creatures for being inconvenient. My payment?”

The woman hesitates.

“You signed a contract,” Geralt reminds her. One of the biggest improvements Jaskier has brought with him is forcing clients to sign written contracts. It keeps them honest.

“With this house being empty for so long, I’ve lost a major source of income. I can get you your money, but it will take time.”

“No problem, I’m sure Lily would be happy to move back in.”

The woman looks horrified. “No, there has to be something else I can do.”

Geralt looks back at the townhouse. It’s furnished simply, which is to his taste. It’s nicely located. It does have a nice bathtub. He’s sure the rent is outrageous, but that can be negotiated. “There is one thing.”

***

One thing that puzzles Geralt about Jaskier is how casual he is about small acts of kindness. Jaskier seems to think nothing of saving half his french fries for Geralt or letting him sleep on his couch after a tough hunt. What’s more, he never seems to expect anything in return, seeming perturbed whenever Geralt flat-out asks Jaskier what he wants from him.

Still, Geralt doesn’t know what to do when Jaskier drops a cell phone in his lap when Geralt picks him up for a hunt one afternoon. “Here.”

“What’s this?” Geralt frowns down at the phone.

“It’s a ‘cellular device,’” Jaskier says in a low, raspy voice that’s clearly intended to be an imitation of Geralt’s voice.

He’s really never going to let that go. Geralt glares at him. “Why are you giving it to me? Isn’t it yours?”

“I had an upgrade, so I figured you could have my old one. So you could actually call me when you need me, rather than lurking on my couch every morning until I wake up.”

“It’s not every morning,” Geralt grumbles, embarrassed. “And you never said it bothered you.”

“It doesn’t bother me, but it’s just impractical. Like, what if you want to send me a cute dog picture? Right now, you can’t, because you don’t have a cell phone.”

“Why would I send you a cute dog picture?”

“Because that’s the kind of thing friends do.”

“We’re not—”

“Yeah, yeah. I know.”

Geralt picks up the phone, turning it over in his hands. “Don’t you need a plan for these?”

“Oh, don’t worry about it.” Jaskier waves his hand. “I added you to mine.”

“But that costs money.” The young musician always seems to be pinching pennies, what with his rotation of low-paying jobs.

Jaskier shrugs. “I got a deal. I think the saleswoman thought I was cute. Anyway, it’s not much in the grand scheme of things.”

“Hm.” Geralt doesn’t know what to do with that.

He doesn’t know what to do with a lot of things when it comes to Jaskier.

***

Geralt tries his damndest to keep Jaskier away from the creatures he hunts. Besides the werewolf and the bruxa, he’s been mostly successful. Jaskier is an idiot who complains endlessly about being made to wait in the car, but he seems to value his life enough to realize that he stands no chance against kikimores, griffins, and the other beasts that Geralt faces on a day to day basis.

Geralt can hear the blogger exclaiming loudly from inside Roach while Geralt deals with the nest of ghouls who have invaded a cemetery in Hagge. Jaskier whoops like a spectator at a sports game when Geralt incinerates three of the ghouls with Igni and gasps when one of the ghouls leaps onto Geralt’s back, sinking its teeth into his armor. Geralt hacks the creature to death and decapitates another with a swing of his sword. He stands very still in the middle of the circle of dead ghouls, keeping an eye on the ground. Everything is still and silent.

Until Jaskier gets out of the car.

“That was incredible!” He sounds breathless with excitement as he hops over the low wrought iron fence and hurries towards Geralt. “There were so many of them, I was worried you were going to—”

A ghoul surges up from the ground behind him and seizes Jaskier by the ankle.

Geralt is halfway across the cemetery as soon as he hears the younger man’s cry of fear. As the ghoul drags Jaskier to the ground, Geralt stabs it through the mouth, his sword erupting out of the back of its skull. The ghoul falls with a pitiful cry and Jaskier scrambles backwards out of its grip, letting out a little shriek when he accidentally grabs another ghoul’s severed arm.

“Fuck,” he gasps, holding his hand to his chest as if it’s been burned. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“Did it bite you?” The nearest hospital is a fifteen minute drive away, maybe twelve minutes if Geralt gets lucky with the lights. Ghoul venom works fast, but modern medicine has made it so that it’s no longer an automatic death sentence for a human. Geralt might be able to save Jaskier in time. He might not have to watch him die.

“I’m fine.” Jaskier must see Geralt’s worry, because his voice is soothing. He rolls up his pant leg so Geralt can see the unmarred skin of his ankle and calf. “See, not a scratch.”

Geralt feels inexplicably shaken, like he’s the one who just nearly got his leg torn off. He drops to his knees in front of Jaskier and checks the younger man’s legs for bite marks, even though he already knows that he’s unharmed. He just needs to make sure. His hands still as the sour scent of Jaskier’s fear turns into the musky sweetness of arousal.

Well, fuck.

Geralt knows that Jaskier is attracted to him, but Jaskier seems to be attracted to most people, so he doesn’t spend too much time worrying about it. When he looks up at Jaskier, he sees that the other man’s face is red and he’s looking anywhere but at Geralt. Taking pity on him, Geralt lets go of him and sits back.

“You’re fine,” he says gruffly.

“Yes, I already told you that, Geralt.” Jaskier’s voice is pitchy. “Thanks so much for double checking.”

Geralt stands up and helps him to his feet, pretending not to notice as Jaskier adjusts himself. Luckily, by the time they get back to the car, Jaskier’s scent has returned to normal.

“We should stop to get burgers and fries,” Jaskier says. “I’m starving. Nearly dying builds up an appetite.”

Normally, Geralt would complain about being asked to stop. This time, he says, “I can get you a milkshake too.”

Jaskier smiles radiantly at him. “I suppose I should nearly die more often, shouldn’t I?”

“You didn’t almost die,” Geralt growls, which earns a laugh from Jaskier.

Geralt has no idea what’s so funny, but he buys Jaskier a milkshake, burger, and fries anyway.

***

One of the most frustrating things about knowing Jaskier is the musician’s seeming nonchalance about his own safety. Yes, he seems frightened on the few occasions where a monster has gotten too close, but he seems to quickly recover, usually immediately demanding junk food after a close call. Geralt finds him baffling. Surely, no blog post is worth endangering himself. Surely, he has better things to do than follow a witcher through swamps and graveyards. Yet still, it’s been three months and Jaskier is still here.

“You should lock your door,” he tells Jaskier one morning when he’s stopped by Jaskier’s apartment to tell him about a cockatrice hunt in Old Cintra. As usual, he was able to let himself into the musician’s apartment, even though both Jaskier and his latest paramour were sound asleep.

“Oh, the lock doesn’t work,” Jaskier says airily. “Hasn’t since I moved in.”

Geralt doesn’t know what’s worse, that Jaskier has apparently been sleeping in an unlocked apartment for years or that he doesn’t seem all that concerned about it. Geralt has lived long enough to be acutely aware of how vicious people can be to each other. Jaskier, with his bright clothes, easy smiles, and infectious nature, is the kind of person who draws attention to himself without even trying. And that attention won’t always be benign.

“I’ll call my super again,” Jaskier finally promises when Geralt presses him. “Not that it will help.”

And well, that’s not acceptable.

Geralt is merely showing professional concern for a colleague, he tells himself as he pounds on the door of the superintendent’s first floor apartment. After all, besides his tendency to fall into bed with anyone who bats their eyelashes at him, Jaskier’s association with a witcher is the thing most likely to make him enemies. If Jaskier gets himself killed because someone takes umbrage to him providing positive publicity for Geralt, that will be on Geralt’s head.

The superintendent is a wiry man who looks up at Geralt with naked distaste. “What do you want?”

“Jaskier Pankratz,” Geralt says. “Apartment 706.”

“What about him?”

“His door doesn’t lock.”

“So?”

“So anyone could walk right into his apartment.”

“This is a safe building.”

“There’s no building that’s safe enough to leave an apartment unlocked all the time.”

The super shrugs. “Haven’t had any problems.”

Geralt can feel a growl building in his throat, but he holds it back. He can hear Jaskier’s voice in his head like the musician is standing right behind him. _“People don’t growl at each other, Geralt.”_

“There are eight floors in this building, fourteen units each floor,” he says instead. “How many people live in this building? One fifty? Two hundred? Can you vouch for each one of them, that they’re not a thief or a killer? What about their friends and family that they invite over?”

“Look, I don’t tell you how to do your job—”

“Good, because you can barely fucking do yours.”

The super makes to slam the door in his face, but Geralt blocks it with his foot. Ignoring the man’s protests, he pushes his way inside the dingy little apartment and crowds into the super’s space. The sour smell of fear fills the air, which would normally be enough to make Geralt back off, but he’s picturing the scent of Jaskier’s terror instead.

“If anything happens to him because you couldn’t be bothered to do your damn job and fix the lock, I will hold you personally responsible,” Geralt says in a low, dangerous voice. “You don’t want that to happen.”

The man swallows hard. “I’ll fix the lock.”

“And add a deadbolt.” Geralt pauses, considering. “Two deadbolts.”

“Of course.” The man nods. “Right away.”

“Good. I hope we don’t have to have this talk again.” Geralt slams his way out of the apartment, filled with vicious satisfaction.

It’s what any good colleague would do.

***

When Jaskier breaks his guitar over a cockatrice’s head in Old Cintra, shattering it into pieces, he tries to be stoic about it. “She lived a good life,” he says during the drive back to Posada, looking down at the broken pieces in his hands. “And she died for a worthy cause.”

“Saving your neck when you didn’t stay where I fucking told you to?” Geralt is in a foul mood. Between having been forced to attend a party, running into Stregobor, the mysterious person following them, and the hunt that almost went badly wrong, it was a shit night.

Jaskier looks at him with a wounded expression. “Somebody was following you!”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

“How do you know? We don’t know who they were!”

“Hm.”

“I know that ‘hm’ means that you know I’m right, Geralt.”

Geralt has a small, petty urge to say “hm” again. He just barely manages to suppress it. “If you can’t stay where you’re supposed to, you can’t come with me on hunts.”

Jaskier’s heartbeat picks up speed. “Geralt—”

“That’s the deal you made three months ago.”

“It was one time.”

“One time is all it takes for you to get yourself killed.”

“I didn’t—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls. In his mind’s eye, he’s seeing Stregobor’s predatory smile as he spoke to Jaskier at the gala. He’s seeing the cockatrice’s beak inches from Jaskier’s face before Geralt decapitated it.

Humans are so fucking fragile. Jaskier is loud and bright and funny, with so much life in him that it seems impossible that it would be snuffed out, but they came too close tonight.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier says, sounding as subdued as Geralt has ever heard him. “It won’t happen again.”

The musician doesn’t say another word the rest of the drive. When they get to Posada, he only offers Geralt a quiet goodbye before slipping out of the car. Geralt watches him go, feeling like utter shit. Which is ridiculous, because he’s just trying to keep the kid from getting himself killed. He shouldn’t feel his stomach turn over when he finds a fragment of Jaskier’s guitar in the passenger seat. Jaskier lost his prized possession because Geralt wasn’t fast enough, his night in New Cintra was ruined, and Geralt upset him. The knowledge that he behaved too harshly worms his way under Geralt’s skin.

Which is why he finds himself in a pawn shop the next day, looking over the selection of musical instruments. There aren’t many guitars, and none of the ones available are much to look at. Geralt can’t imagine Jaskier, who takes impeccable care of his instruments, owning any of these battered things. He’s about to give up when something in the corner catches his eye.

The clerk follows his gaze. “Oh, that old thing. Pretty, isn’t it? Shame no one plays the lute anymore.”

The lute is more than “pretty.” Geralt knows next to nothing about lutes, but he knows elven craftsmanship when he sees it. It’s exquisitely carved, far too fine for this dusty little shop. It’s lovely and unique, perfect for Jaskier.

“I’ll take it,” he tells the man.

The next night, when he stops by Jaskier’s apartment, the young man greets him cheerfully, like their argument the other night never happened. His lock is fixed, though there’s only one deadlock on the door, much to Geralt’s chagrin.

“Leave my poor super alone,” Jaskier chides him. “You practically made the man piss himself.”

“Maybe he should do his damn job then.”

Jaskier’s eyes sparkle as he smiles at Geralt. “I could really use a better showerhead, if you want to ask him about that next.”

Geralt snorts. “Don’t push your luck.”

He’s strangely nervous about presenting Jaskier with the lute. When the musician opens the case and his eyes go wide with awe, Geralt feels a warm glow of pride in his chest.

“I know it’s not a guitar,” he says. “But it’s elven made. It was given to me as payment many, many years ago. I have no use for it, but I thought you might like it.”

Geralt isn’t sure why he lies, exactly. He just knows that he’s not ready for Jaskier to know that Geralt thought to go out and buy something this personal for him, that Geralt thinks of him outside of their business arrangement. The thought makes Geralt feel strangely vulnerable. No, best for Jaskier to think that Geralt has just had a lute sitting around for a couple hundred years.

“It’s beautiful.” Jaskier runs a reverent hand over the lute. “Geralt, this is way too much. You don’t have to…”

“I told you, I have no use for it. You do. It’s yours.”

Jaskier looks up at Geralt with as much awe as he just regarded the lute with. Geralt squirms uncomfortably under that too-blue gaze. He’s done nothing to earn that open, warm affection in Jaskier’s eyes. Jaskier’s guitar got broken on Geralt’s watch and he’s making it right, like anyone would.

And if he likes Jaskier looking at him like that a little too much, well, no one else needs to know.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! There may be one or two more chapters in this fic. There will also be a Laiden-centric fic in this AU coming sometime in late February.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your lovely comments on the last chapter! They encouraged me to write another chapter of this fic. This chapter covers the events of chapters 4 and 5 of Where There's a Witcher.

Geralt isn’t sure exactly how he got talked into having dinner with Jaskier’s fourteen year old neighbor. For one, he and Jaskier don’t exactly spend time together outside of going on hunts. While he’s gotten used to the younger man’s company— and can even admit to himself that he enjoys it— they’re colleagues, not friends, and Geralt doesn’t want to encourage Jaskier’s aspirations for more. For another, Geralt has never been the type that people want to introduce to their loved ones.

“Kids don’t like me,” he warns Jaskier as they drive to pick Ciri up.

“Ciri already likes you,” Jaskier tells him.

“She’s only met me once for five minutes.”

“She liked you before that. I’ve told her a lot of stories and she’s a big fan of the blog.”

“Hm.” That doesn’t reassure Geralt. The person Jaskier writes about in his blog isn’t the person that Geralt really is. Even after months of knowing Geralt, Jaskier still sees him as a hero and not someone who does what he has to do to make ends meet. It’s flattering, if still somewhat bewildering.

“Relax.” Jaskier reaches over to put a hand on Geralt’s arm. “Ciri will adore you. She’s a smart kid with excellent taste. Hence her friendship with yours truly.”

“Everyone makes shitty decisions at fourteen.”

“Oh, honestly.” Jaskier snatches his hand back with a faux-offended huff. “Bite me, Geralt.”

“My teeth are sharp. You wouldn’t like that.” Geralt is surprised by the spike of sudden arousal he smells from the other man. Maybe Jaskier _would_ like that, which is more surprising than it probably should be.

Jaskier clears his throat, shifting in his seat. “What I don’t like is this slander.”

“Unhappy enough to cancel dinner?”

“Not on your life.”

They find Ciri waiting for them outside her and Jaskier’s apartment building, bouncing a little on her heels in her excitement. Something about the girl seems familiar, Geralt thinks as she hurries towards them, though he’s certain he’s never met her before she stopped by Jaskier’s apartment last week. Perhaps he met some long-ago ancestor of hers. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s met someone, only to learn that he also knew their great-great-great grandparent.

“Hi, Geralt!” Ciri chirps as she slides into the backseat.

Geralt nods his greeting as Jaskier turns around with a gasp. “What am I, chopped liver?”

“I saw you this morning,” Ciri tells him. “It’s not that exciting.”

Jaskier presses his hand to his chest. “I’ll remember that later, when there’s only one piece of pizza left and you’re giving me sad eyes.”

“Don’t worry, Ciri, I’ll make sure you get the last piece of pizza,” Geralt tells her.

Jaskier tries to swat at him, but Geralt reaches out and snags him by the wrist to stop him, not taking his eyes off the road. He hears the hitch of Jaskier’s breath and quickly lets go, not wanting to embarrass both of them any further, especially not with Ciri in the car.

“How was school?” Jaskier’s voice is only a little bit pitchy when he turns back to Ciri.

“It was fine,” she says. “Martin’s being annoying again.”

“Again?”

Geralt half-listens as Ciri and Jaskier discuss one of Ciri’s friends and his unfortunate crush on Ciri. Schoolyard politics has never been Geralt’s area of interest, so he has nothing to add to the conversation, except for the occasional grunt to show he’s listening, even though he’s not really. He’s relieved when they get to the restaurant and head inside. The hostess gives Geralt a skeptical look, but still leads the three of them to a booth in the corner.

“You’re going to love this place,” Jaskier tells Geralt as they sit down. “The pizza’s the best in Posada.”

“Don’t think that’s saying much,” Geralt says dryly, which earns him a dirty look from the hostess as she hands him a menu.

Jaskier waves a dismissive hand at him. “Like you’re such a pizza connoisseur, Geralt.”

“Hm. Think it’s overrated.” Geralt likes pizza just fine, but he just wants to see the look on Jaskier’s face.

The musician doesn’t disappoint, with his eyes going wide and his mouth opening in an O of shocked outrage, like Geralt just insulted his grandmother’s virtue. “You make me unbelievably sad sometimes.”

Geralt just shrugs, a smile tugging his lips.

“So, what are we thinking, Ciri?” Jaskier turns to the girl.

“Pepperoni?”

“Pepperoni? All the options available to us, and you want _pepperoni_? The most basic pizza topping possible?”

Geralt has a feeling that this is an argument that happens frequently, so he stays silent while after much negotiation, Ciri and Jaskier agree on getting a pepperoni pizza and breadsticks.

He notices that someone comes and takes their order in record time and that their pizza and breadsticks arrive quickly after that, sooner than the orders of people who arrived before them. It seems that someone has noticed that Geralt is a witcher and wants him out of their restaurant as soon as possible. Geralt doesn’t say anything and luckily, Ciri and Jaskier don’t seem to notice, because this is the kind of thing Jaskier would kick up a fuss about. Geralt has no desire to ruin Jaskier’s favorite pizza place for him.

“So, what were you hunting today?” Ciri asks Geralt around a mouthful of breadstick, her eyes bright with curiosity.

“An arachas,” Geralt says.

“What’s that?”

“A giant spider,” Jaskier says. “Very large and very ugly.”

At the girl’s horrified look, Geralt is quick to reassure her, “There aren’t many of them left. And the one today was old and slow. Wasn’t much of a fight.”

“Not much of a fight?” Jaskier looks horrified. “It was at least two tons. With giant fangs and blazing red eyes.”

“It was maybe a ton,” Geralt says with a sigh.

This launches them into a conversation about Geralt’s work as a witcher and the monsters he’s fought, not that he minds. He understands why Jaskier is so fond of Ciri; she’s bright, inquisitive, and endlessly fascinated by everything to do with witchers and monsters. He can tell that Jaskier is taking notes as Geralt tells Ciri stories of his past monster hunts, but he ignores it. If Jaskier wants to find inspiration in the tale of an uneventful hunt over a century ago, Geralt isn’t going to stop him.

As soon as they’re finished their pizza, the server brings them their check and they head down the street to get ice cream, even though it’s December and flurrying outside.

“It’s always a good time of year for ice cream,” Jaskier tells Geralt when he points that out. “Anyway, you don’t even feel the cold!”

Geralt does feel the cold, if not as strongly as humans, but he doesn’t feel the need to bring that up. The ice cream shop is packed, so they stand outside in the cold and eat their ice cream while Geralt tells Ciri about selkiemores. Neither Ciri nor Jaskier complain, both focused on their ice creams. Ciri keeps stealing spoonfuls of Jaskier’s ice cream and he makes a big show of swatting her away whenever she tries, but he also stands so his cup of ice cream is within reach of her. 

“You have a future as a journalist,” Jaskier tells Ciri when Geralt is done talking about selkiemores. “You’ve gotten more out of him in a night than I have in three months.”

“I’m less annoying,” Ciri says.

Geralt barely manages to swallow a chuckle, watching as Jaskier harrumphs. Watching Ciri and Jaskier together isn’t what Geralt expected. When he found out that one of Jaskier’s closest friends was a fourteen year old girl, Geralt assumed it was because Jaskier had the maturity to match. He wasn’t expecting the sibling-like affection between the two, the way that Jaskier clearly brings Ciri out of her shell.

Geralt isn’t the type to call grown men adorable, but if he were, he would think it was adorable, the way Jaskier teases Ciri and lets her steal his ice cream and clearly dotes on her.

But luckily for everyone involved, Geralt isn’t the type to let something like that warm his heart.

***

The next night, Geralt is taking a rare night off from his witcher duties, sitting and reading a book with a glass of whiskey in hand, when his phone rings. He’s going to ignore it, until he glances down and sees Jaskier’s picture on the screen.

“Fuck,” Geralt grumbles and goes to answer it. “What?”

“Nice to hear from you too.” There’s a slur to Jaskier’s voice and Geralt can hear the chatter of voices in the background. He’s definitely drunk.

“What do you want, Jaskier?” Geralt takes a gulp of his whiskey.

“Can you come get me?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because I need a ride.” Jaskier rushes into an incomprehensible flurry of words, growing more agitated by the second.

“Fine,” Geralt says, cutting him off. If Jaskier is as drunk as he sounds, he shouldn’t be driving anyway. “Where are you?”

When he picks Jaskier up in front of a restaurant on the other side of Posada, the younger man reeks of tequila and has crushed chips all over his sweater. He collapses into Geralt’s passenger seat, looking a bit green. It turns out that Jaskier’s date stood him up and his car got towed, so he did the logical thing and decided to get completely inebriated.

“You never seem to want for companionship,” Geralt tells Jaskier as the younger man whines about his date standing him up. Every week, Jaskier seems to have a pretty new person to make a fool out of himself over. Geralt doesn’t understand why one unsuccessful date would have him so worked up.

“Yeah, but that’s just people I meet at bars. It would be nice to get someone to stick around for more than a night or two.” Jaskier heaves a sigh and turns to look at Geralt. “What about you?”

Geralt thinks of Yennefer, of how badly he fucked things up with her, blowing up not only their romance, but their friendship in the process. “I am not going to discuss this with you.”

“Oh come on, you’ve been alive for like a thousand years. There has to be some badass lady witcher out there who you’ve been having a torrid love affair with for centuries.”

“There are no lady witchers, period.” Geralt heard the Cat School has a few female witchers, but he never met any of them in person, which is just as well. Geralt always tried to avoid the Cat School as much as possible.

“Well, that seems short-sighted,” Jaskier says. “So, no torrid love affairs?”

Geralt parks Roach in front of his townhouse. “We’re here. Get out.”

Jaskier looks around blearily. “This isn’t my building.”

“No, it’s my house.” Geralt should have driven Jaskier back to his own place, but the thought of leaving the younger man alone when he’s in such a vulnerable state makes Geralt uneasy. There are too many stupid, pointless ways a person can get themself killed while inebriated. “It’s closer. I’m not driving all the way across town because you can’t hold your liquor.”

“You bought a house? I thought you were sleeping in your car.”

“I’m renting.”

Jaskier peppers Geralt with questions as they make their way inside the house, looking around with the wide-eyed expression of someone seeing a fascinating museum exhibit. Geralt shows Jaskier upstairs, keeping the musician within arm’s reach in case he tumbles down the stairs. When they reach Geralt’s bedroom, Jaskier stops dead in the doorway.

“This is your bedroom?” Jaskier’s voice goes squeaky.

Geralt frowns at him, unsure why the musician looks like he just got clubbed in the face. “The second bedroom doesn’t have any furniture in it.”

“Where are you going to sleep?” A spike of arousal fills the air.

Ah, that explains it. Geralt can’t deny that the thought of sharing a bed with a sober Jaskier isn’t entirely unappealing, but he has no interest in bedding someone who can’t even walk in a straight line. Firmly, he says, “On the couch.”

“I can take the couch!”

“I can sleep anywhere. Just go to bed, Jaskier.” Geralt pulls the door closed behind him and heads downstairs to try and get some sleep.

Only to be woken up a few hours later when a fucking assassin breaks into the house to kill him.

***

The bruises on Jaskier’s neck have turned a vivid purple by the next morning, the clear imprints of fingers visible. They’re the only sign of the violence of the night before; Jaskier is his bright, obnoxious self, with no traces of the terrified young man who begged the assassin to stop while he was being strangled. But Geralt can still hear echoes of his cry of, _“No, no, please!”_ and smell the traces of his sour terror. He lets Jaskier’s chatter bounce off of him as he drives him to retrieve his car from the towing company.

“Thank you again for this,” Jaskier says as they pull into the lot. “Picking me up from the restaurant, letting me stay the night, bringing me to get my call. It’s all above and beyond the call of friendship.”

“Hm.” Geralt doesn’t protest that they’re not really friends. He can’t bring himself to, not when the memory of Jaskier’s fear is so fresh. “Call me if anything happens. If anything is strange or makes you think you think you might be in danger.”

“Geralt, I’ll be fine. You’re the one he was after.” Jaskier is still smiling, but there are shadows under his eyes and a furrow in his forehead that Geralt hasn’t seen before. “What are you going to do?”

“Going to do some poking around. Try to figure what the hell a witcher is doing taking contracts on other witchers.” And how there’s a witcher that Geralt didn’t know about alive, when as far as he knew, it was just him, Vesemir, Eskel, Lambert, and Coën left.

“Witchers usually don’t become assassins, right?”

“Some schools had no issue with taking contracts on human beings. The Vipers and the Cats were well-known assassins for hire.”

“But they’d kill fellow witchers?” Jaskier looks horrified.

“Sometimes.” Geralt thinks of the Cat School’s betrayal of the Wolf School and the murder of Lambert’s friend, Aiden. “But I don’t think he was a Cat or a Viper. Both schools were wiped out centuries ago.”

Jaskier nods, with the look of someone who’s mentally compiling a list of questions.

Geralt isn’t in the mood to answer them, so he asks, “Do you want me to wait for you to be done? I can follow you home.”

Jaskier’s expression softens. “I’m really fine, Geralt. Last night may have been the most terrifying thing that’s ever happened to me, which is saying a lot given the wyvern and the bruxa and the werewolf and the—”

Geralt clenches his jaw so hard that his teeth start to ache.

“Hey.” Jaskier’s hand brushes his arm. “Don’t look like that. It wasn’t your fault. And like I was saying, it may have been terrifying, but I’m okay because of you. You saved me, just like you always do.”

Geralt can’t meet his eyes.

“I’ll let you know when I get home,” Jaskier says. “Just keep in touch. Let me know if you find anything out.”

Geralt nods, muttering a goodbye as Jaskier slips out of the car. He doesn’t pull Roach out of the parking lot until Jaskier is safely inside the shop, still unable to get the sight of the bruises on the musician’s throat out of his mind.

***

Geralt spends most of that day and the next trying to get in contact with anyone who might know anything about a witcher who’s been hiring himself out as an assassin. He turns up empty; most of the people he talks to are as clueless as he is. After a long, frustrating conversation with yet another dead end, Geralt gives up and calls Eskel.

He only knows Eskel’s number because his brother has a website advertising his creature relocation services. While Eskel will still kill the really dangerous monsters that can’t be allowed to continue coexisting with humanity, his focus is more on rehabilitation and relocation these days. Or at least, that’s what his website says. Geralt hasn’t spoken to his fellow witcher in… well, in an uncomfortable amount of time. He didn’t realize how long until he saw Eskel’s website and realized that his brother has an established business that Geralt knew nothing about.

“This is Eskel.” Eskel’s voice is the same low rumble as ever.

“It’s Geralt.” Geralt braces himself for the inevitable _“where the fuck have you been?”_ or _“what the hell do you want after all this time?”_

But he should have known better, because this is Eskel, who has always been the kindest of any of them. “Huh, so you finally got a cell phone. Or did you find one of the Continent’s last pay phones to call me?”

“No, it’s a cell phone.”

“Gift from Jaskier?”

Geralt frowns. “How do you know about Jaskier?”

“Big fan of his blog. And his songs too. I’ve had the one about the cockatrice stuck in my head for a week now.”

“He’ll be happy to hear that.” Geralt leans back against his couch and closes his eyes. “Business going well?”

“Business is business. You?”

“Staying in Posada for the time being.”

“Still a shithole?”

“Yes.”

“Gotta say, if one of us turned out to be famous, I never thought it would be you. Always thought it would be Coën.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “I’m not famous.”

Eskel hums a few notes of “Toss a Coin.”

Geralt sighs. “I’m not calling to talk about Jaskier and his stupid songs.”

“Don’t tell me you call them stupid to his face.”

“All the time.” Before Eskel can grumble, Geralt adds, “A witcher broke into my house the other night to try and kill me.”

Eskel is quiet for a moment. “Well, fuck. Anyone we know?”

“Didn’t recognize him,” Geralt says.

“What school?”

“He wasn’t wearing a medallion. Wouldn’t have even realized he was a witcher, if he hadn’t taken Cat.”

“Huh,” Eskel says. “Well, he wouldn’t be the first of us to turn against a fellow witcher.”

“You heard anything about any other surviving witchers?”

“No, it was just us, Lambert, Vesemir, and Coën, as far as I knew. I kept an eye out for decades, but haven’t heard so much as a rumor of another one of us still around in years. Last Bear died off at least a century ago, the last Cat and the last Viper centuries before that, and who knows about the Cranes and the Manticores.”

“Hm.” Geralt knew it was a long shot before he even called Eskel, but he was hoping. Of all the surviving witchers, Eskel is the one most likely to have information on a mysterious new witcher.

“I’m on my way to Kaer Morhen for the winter now,” Eskel says. “But I can turn around, if you need help.”

“Not necessary,” Geralt says. “I have it handled.”

“If someone wants you dead—”

“Someone always wants me dead,” Geralt says. “It’s the nature of the job. You’re still doing winters at Kaer Morhen?”

“Every year.” There’s no judgement in Eskel’s voice; his tone is perfectly neutral. “Just me, Coën, and Vesemir most years. You should join us.”

“Not this year.” Geralt’s not leaving Jaskier unattended for an entire winter, not when there’s an assassin on the loose.

“Figured. Maybe next year?”

Geralt hesitates. He hasn’t been to Kaer Morhen in… well, he doesn’t want to think about how long it’s been. There’s no real reason for him not to go back. He wants to see Vesemir, Eskel, Coën, and even Lambert. But something always stops him. “Maybe.”

Eskel sighs. He knows as well as Geralt that a maybe is a really a no. “I’ll talk to Vesemir when I get there. See if he knows something I don’t.”

“Thanks, Eskel.”

“It was good talking to you, Wolf.”

They exchange pleasantries and hang up. Geralt sits alone in his townhouse for a long time, staring at the wall and feeling achingly lonely.

***

Geralt is in the middle of making dinner the next night when he gets a phone call from Jaskier. The musician has texted him a couple of times over the last few days, but Geralt has been too busy trying to figure out what’s going on with the assassin to chat. But he picks up, cradling his phone between his shoulder and his ear as he peels potatoes.

“Jaskier, I told you I was alive,” he says.

“Hey, buddy, do you want to come over for dinner?” Something is off about Jaskier’s voice. A bit too bright, a bit too chirpy.

“Buddy?” Geralt frowns. Jaskier calls him a lot of things, but “buddy” is new.

“Ciri and I made spaghetti and meatballs.”

“I’ll pass.” Noodles are nearly impossible to eat with Geralt’s sharpened incisors.

“Come on, Ciri wants to hear about that giant scorpion we fought last week.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “Do you mean the spider?”

“And you still haven’t helped me put together that bookshelf. You promised.”

As far as Geralt can remember, they’ve never discussed a bookshelf. Cold realization hits Geralt. “He’s there, isn’t he?”

“Yes.” Jaskier’s voice still has that horribly perky quality.

Geralt puts down the potato peeler. “Is Ciri there too?”

“Yes.”

Fuck. Geralt tries to quell his rising panic, even as he can feel his heartbeat pick up inside his chest. He pictures Jaskier’s eyes wide with terror, the witcher’s hand choking the life out of him, the gun. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Don’t do anything stupid, Jaskier.”

He hangs up and springs into motion. He’s prepared for fights thousands of times before; sliding on his armor and gathering his weapons are all familiar motions. But Geralt’s mind keeps replaying their last encounter with the assassin, how close Jaskier came to losing his life.

The drive to Jaskier’s apartment feels endless. Geralt tries not to focus on the myriad of horrible possibilities— that the other witcher will decide he only needs one hostage and kill either Jaskier or Ciri, that Jaskier will try to play the hero and get himself killed, that he’s currently being tortured. The thoughts do him no good; he knows it’s best to go into battle with a clear head. But he can’t stop picturing Jaskier screaming, Jaskier bleeding, Jaskier afraid.

Geralt parks his car in front of the building and makes his way up to the seventh floor, pausing in front of Jaskier’s door to listen to the sounds inside. He can hear three heartbeats— two elevated human heartbeats and one witcher slow. The witcher and one of the human heartbeats are close to the door, like the other witcher is lying in wait with one of the humans as a hostage. There’s no point in trying to kick down a door and take the assassin by surprise; he most likely heard Geralt coming.

“Jaskier?” he calls.

There’s a small gasp from inside, then Jaskier’s shaking voice says, “Come in.”

Geralt pushes open the door and finds exactly what he was expecting. The room reeks of terror. Jaskier and the assassin stand in front of Geralt, Jaskier positioned squarely in between the two witchers. Geralt doesn’t see any weapons, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there. Jaskier holds himself with the stillness of someone trying not to impale himself on a blade, while Ciri sits on the couch, her face streaked with tears. Geralt clenches his teeth so hard that his jaw pops.

“Weapons on the ground,” the other witcher says. “Or he dies.”

Jaskier shakes his head and starts to say Geralt’s name, breaking off when the assassin brings a knife to his throat. It’s the cursed blade the other witcher fought with the night he attacked them. Geralt has no idea what the curse does, and he doesn’t want Jaskier to be the one who demonstrates.

“Your business here is with me.” Geralt fights to keep his voice calm. “There’s no reason to get two humans involved.”

“You’re right.” The other witcher’s lips twist into an unpleasant smile. “I only need one of them. I can kill this one, if you prefer.”

Jaskier’s mouth trembles. His terrified eyes are fixed on Geralt.

Geralt forces himself to look at the assassin, not at Jaskier. “If you hurt him, you won’t leave here alive.”

“You know, I’ve heard so much about you,” the other witcher says with a chuckle. His lack of trepidation is infuriating. “Geralt of Rivia, the Butcher of Blaviken, the one who underwent the Grasses twice and survived. I always hoped our paths would cross someday. And now we finally meet and you’re nothing. You live in a townhouse in a city on the edge of the world. You carry around a pet. It’s pathetic.”

Geralt fights down the growl he can feel building in his chest. “If I’m so pathetic, why do you need a human shield to face me?”

“Swords on the ground, Butcher, or this human dies screaming,” the assassin snarls.

“No, don’t.” Jaskier’s voice shakes, but his gaze is steady on Geralt. “Just get Ciri out and go. I’m fine. Just go.”

“Shut up.” The assassin brings the blade to Jaskier’s mouth, pressing it against his lips.

Geralt’s heart seems to leap into his throat. He wants to shout at Jaskier. Does the fool really think that Geralt would leave him here at this assassin’s mercy, to die alone and afraid? Geralt unsheathes his swords and drops them to the ground. “I’m unarmed. Now, are you going to stand there and talk about killing me all day, or are you going to act?”

He needs the other witcher to let Jaskier go and come after him. He needs that blade away from Jaskier.

But the assassin doesn’t rise to the bait. “Kick them over here.”

Geralt complies without hesitating.

The assassin shakes his head, scoffing. “You’re really going to let me kill you, all for a human. You’ve gone soft.”

Geralt can’t take his eyes away from Jaskier, who has his eyes closed. He’s never seen the musician stand this still. “I remember the vows I took at Kaer Morhen.”

“Kaer Morhen is gone. All the schools are, and our brothers with them. Some of us need to find ways to survive.”

“Survive?” Fury rises in Geralt, hot and fast. He’s never been quick to anger, but right now he’s enraged. Ciri is crying and Jaskier is terrified and this fucker is responsible. “You’re threatening an innocent man with a knife. You’ve taken coin to kill a fellow witcher. If you can only survive by disgracing witchers, then you should have fallen with the rest. Now let him go and face me yourself, you son of a whore.”

For a moment, he thinks he’s pushed the assassin too far and that Jaskier will die for his loss of temper. But instead of slitting the human’s throat, the other witcher shoves him aside and lunges at Geralt. 

From the get go, the fight is stacked against Geralt. His swords are out of reach and the other witcher has the cursed knife. Geralt’s attention is split between his opponent, Jaskier, and Ciri, making sure the latter two stay well out of the way of the battle. Sheer rage fuels him as he grapples with the other witcher. So many of his brothers have perished over the centuries, killed by monsters or men, and this _fucker_ is still here, still breathing.

The other witcher’s fighting style is unfamiliar to Geralt, he notes absently, not like any of the Schools Geralt was familiar with. He fights more like a trained soldier than any witcher Geralt has ever encountered, using his body with practiced brutality. Both witchers are distracted as Jaskier moves forward, as if to try and retrieve Geralt’s swords. The assassin whirls on him, brandishing the knife.

Jaskier flinches backwards, hands coming up to defend himself, but Geralt is already between them. With a snarl of rage, he slams into the other witcher, heedless of anything but getting that knife away from Jaskier. The only thing that matters is getting Jaskier and Ciri out of this alive.

The assassin slashes at Geralt with his knife, catching him in the arm. It’s a tiny thing. With a normal blade, it would be nothing. But Geralt immediately feels the effect, the drain on his energy. He stumbles backwards.

“No!” Jaskier cries and the assassin’s attention snaps to the human.

Geralt braces himself to do whatever’s necessary to defend Jaskier, just as Ciri cries, “Jaskier, Geralt, get down and cover your ears!”

Geralt’s medallion vibrates around his neck at her shout and his attention snaps to her. She’s standing in the middle of the living room, seeming to vibrate with power, and Geralt abruptly realizes where he recognizes her from. He tackles Jaskier to the ground, covering the musician’s body with his own and slapping his hands over Jaskier’s ears. He can feel Jaskier’s heart slamming against his.

Ciri screams and Geralt has to screw his face up against the agony. It’s like the scream is _inside_ his head, making his eyes feel like they’ll burst and his teeth rattle in his skull. He presses his face against Jaskier’s hair, vaguely aware of the other man’s trembling hands slapping over his ears. He’s hyper-aware of every inch of Jaskier under him— the thrum of his pulse, the rasp of his breathing, the way he curls closer to Geralt. He’s never been more aware of Jaskier’s humanity than he is at this moment.

When Ciri’s scream finally dies, he looks up to see that Jaskier’s apartment is a wreck of broken furniture and the other witcher is dead, his broken body lying in the wreckage of the kitchen table. His neck hangs at an unnatural angle, eyes wide and staring.

Geralt can feel the cut on his arm throbbing with dark magic, but he knows there’s nothing he can do about it. It’s a killing curse. He says nothing to Jaskier and Ciri as he ascertains that they’re both okay. Neither are harmed, just shaken, and Geralt can take comfort in the fact that he may be doomed, but they lived. It’s not until after Calanthe shows up, drawn by the sound of her granddaughter’s scream, that Jaskier looks over at Geralt and frowns. “Geralt?”

“I’m fine,” Geralt says, though darkness is gathering on the edges of his vision and he knows he’s only moments away from losing consciousness. “Just a scratch.”

“Show me.” When Geralt complies, the musician goes pale. “Did he cut you with the dagger?”

“Just a scratch,” Geralt repeats dumbly.

Calanthe kneels down in front of him. “Was the blade cursed?”

It’s odd, Geralt thinks, that Calanthe would assume curse instead of poison. He files that information away for later, then remembers that there won’t be a later. Everything is becoming blurry as Jaskier keeps talking to him, fear scent returning stronger than ever, and Geralt forces himself to respond.

“Jaskier, listen,” he finally says, his voice slurred. “You need to get me to Aretuza. You need to find Yennefer of Vengerberg. She can help.”

Darkness claims him before he can hear Jaskier’s response.

***

Somehow, Geralt lives. Despite the curse, Stregobor rooting around in his mind, and the sorcerer showing up at Aretuza to threaten Jaskier, they all make it out in one piece, though after a day confined to bed, Geralt is bored, restless, and ready to get back to Posada, despite Yennefer and Triss’s adominishments that he should rest for longer.

“You won’t be back to full strength for weeks,” Yennefer warns him. “So don’t go out and find a leshen to fight.”

“Not many leshen left these days.”

Yennefer gives him a flat, unamused look. It’s so familiar that he feels a smile curling his lips. “If skinny jeans brings you back here in a week because you took on something you couldn’t handle, I’ll slam the door in your faces.”

They both know she won’t, but neither of them comment on it.

Later, Geralt is getting ready to leave when there’s a tap on his door and he looks up to see Jaskier standing in the doorway.

“Ready to go?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt nods. “Don’t have any luggage to pack up.”

“The benefits of mad dashes across the Continent.” Jaskier tilts his head to the side, watching Geralt with an uncharacteristically serious expression. “Are you up to traveling?”

“Yes.”

“It would be okay if you weren’t. Tissaia said we can stay—”

“I’m fine.” Geralt finds it difficult to look at Jaskier. His conversation with Yennefer the day before keeps echoing in his head. _“Colleagues don’t pull themselves out of magical comas because they know that the other one is in danger. Colleagues don’t spend the night sitting at each other’s sickbeds. Colleagues aren’t tortured by visions of the other one being harmed.”_

He’s known that there was a mutual attraction between him and Jaskier, but attraction means nothing in the grand scheme of things. Jaskier is good-looking and charming, and the kind of person who seems to fall a bit in love with every person he interacts with. Geralt has been determined to disregard it as simple lust and the beginnings of a friendship. But so soon after nearly losing his life— after nearly losing _Jaskier’s_ life— Geralt can see the truth in Yennefer’s words.

He has feelings for Jaskier, which is real fucking inconvenient.

Jaskier steps closer and puts a hand on Geralt’s arm. “You should know that I’ve been given strict instructions to make sure that you take it easy for the next few weeks.”

“Have you?” Geralt is very aware of the weight of Jaskier’s hand, the closeness of him. It would be the easiest thing in the world to reach out and put his hand on Jaskier’s waist, draw him close… He shakes the image away before he can lose his head entirely.

“And I intend on following those instructions, because I’m far more afraid of Yennefer than I am of you.”

“Finally, some survival instincts.”

“Ha.” Jaskier prods him in the chest. “You’re not as funny as you think you are, Geralt.”

“Hm.” Geralt’s lips quirk into a smile and his gaze falls to the pink curve of Jaskier’s mouth.

Yennefer’s voice returns to his thoughts, unbidden. _“This one won’t be around for another couple of centuries. If you’re going to act, do it soon.”_

Maybe she’s right, but Geralt can’t bring himself to close that distance between them. Jaskier deserves better. He deserves a human who can grow old with him, not a witcher who’s been alive for far too long and has seen far too much death. He deserves a family and a future, things that Geralt can’t give him. The thought is like a cold bucket of water to his face and Geralt takes a step back, out of Jaskier’s reach.

Jaskier’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “Ciri and Calanthe are most likely ready to go.”

Geralt nods dumbly. “Should probably go meet them.”

“You’re right. Can’t keep Calanthe waiting for long, or she’ll drive off without us.”

“It’s my fucking car.”

“It’s cute that you think that would stop her.”

With a snort and a shake of his head, Geralt follows Jaskier out the door. He’ll sort out his feelings for Jaskier later. He’ll figure out a way to move forward.

Right now, he just wants to go home.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've read Where There's a Witcher recently, you may notice that I changed some of the dialogue that occurs between Geralt and the assassin while the assassin is holding Jaskier hostage. When I wrote WTAW, I wasn't very familiar with The Witcher lore, having only seen the Netflix show, so I wasn't aware that there were different witcher schools. I had the assassin say something about training at Kaer Morhen, which in retrospect makes no sense since Geralt doesn't know him. I changed that here and will also be editing that section of Where There's a Witcher. This change may be relevant to the next installment in the series, but who can say?
> 
> I'm hoping to have the Lambert/Aiden spinoff fic up either the last weekend of February or first weekend of March, so keep an eye out for that!
> 
> Thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are always appreciated.


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